An Exquisite Sense of What Is Beautiful (19 page)
Read An Exquisite Sense of What Is Beautiful Online
Authors: J David Simons
He knew what she meant.
Panpan
. A prostitute served up by the Japanese government during the Occupation to soothe the
invading
American hordes. The remark hurt him. He knelt down beside her on the
tatami
. A slither of space between them but it felt like a chasm to cross. He could hear her gulping for breath.
‘I am very happy here with you,’ he said. ‘I don’t ever
remember
being so happy.’
‘You make me feel like your
panpan
girl.’
‘That’s not fair.’
‘Tell me then, Eddie. Tell me what is fair?’
Back at the hotel, he began to prepare his manuscript for
posting
to Aldous. A few last-minute pencil edits but generally he was satisfied. Except for the title. He had kept that for last. But really he had known from the beginning what it would be.
The Waterwheel.
He had slept very late. He could sense that from the moment he awoke. The full morning light behind the drawn curtains still
managing
to filter through the fabric. The sound of a vacuum cleaner in the hallway. There was something reassuring about that hum. A feeling of order, of being looked after. A memory of his mother performing the same task. If he slept – which could not always be guaranteed – he was always a seven o’clock riser. On the dot. With or without an alarm clock. Then a movement of his bowels, a shower and a shave. Such regularity. Yet this morning, a deeper self had demanded more sleep, had overridden his usual
methodical
being. He liked that. There was still an ounce of anarchy left in him. He reached over to the bedside table, located his glasses. It was quarter-to-ten.
He washed and dressed quickly but by the time he reached the dining room, he realised it was too late. The tables were already stripped down, the chafing dishes removed, a team of cleaning staff in motion between the chairs.
‘Ah, Sir Edward,’ Takahashi said, appearing so quietly at his side as to startle him. ‘I am afraid you have missed breakfast.’
‘So it seems. Such a pity as I am quite famished.’ He tried to remember when he had last eaten. A few canapés at the embassy party.
‘I am sorry. But the dining room must be prepared. There is an Old Boys party coming for luncheon. But I could organise something for you in the tea lounge overlooking the garden. It is quite pleasant to sit there. And I can arrange for the radiators to be opened.’
‘That would be very kind of you.’
‘My pleasure. Would scrambled eggs and toast be sufficient?’
‘And a pot of tea.’
‘Of course.’
‘And Ms Blythe. Where is she?’
‘I believe she is hard at work in our small business centre.’
‘Perhaps you would like to join me then, Takahashi-san? We can have that little chat I have been so looking forward to.’
‘That would be most pleasant. I shall let you eat in peace. And then arrive to share some tea with you.’
Almost as soon as Edward had popped the last slice of toast into his mouth, Takahashi appeared at his table, bowed, pulled out a chair.
‘Some more tea,’ the hotel manager said, wriggling his starched white cuff high on his forearm and pouring out two cups with a measured efficiency. ‘So refreshing this particular Indian blend. We have it specially prepared for the hotel, you know. For many years now. It is quite famous.’
As he watched Takahashi sip his tea, Edward knew he was
looking
at the face of a lifelong smoker, the lines etched in the flesh holding a slightly grey tinge, the eyes bleary from years at the front line of such a habit. He could see the stained fingers edgy without their usual wedge between them. And on the back of one hand, the dried-up welt and blister of what appeared to be an old burn mark. Perhaps it was the taste of the hotel’s own quality brew that set him off or the mid-morning peacefulness from his position overlooking the gardens, but he suddenly felt an overwhelming curiosity about this man sitting in front of him.
‘Tell me, Takahashi-san. Was it hard for you after the war?’
Takahashi gently replaced his cup on its saucer and smiled. ‘Hunger, Sir Edward. That is what I always remember. An empty stomach and a constant desire to fill it. But we were lucky. Although we lived in the city we had relatives who were farmers. My mother often walked miles out into the country to visit them, threw herself at their mercy so we could be fed. Traded heirlooms for handfuls of rice. Sometimes I had nothing to eat but grasshoppers.’
‘Grasshoppers? I really thought that was only a fiction.’
‘I can assure you that poverty drove my mother to such extremes. My brother and I were often sent out to catch them. Excuse me, but do you mind if I smoke?’
‘Please go ahead.’
Takahashi turned to a waiter lurking by a far wall, mimed the flicking of ash into an imaginary dish.
‘You must forgive me, Sir Edward. But I do like a cigarette with my morning tea. My only vice.’
‘I fully understand. I was once a smoker myself.’
‘Fortunately you have had the discipline to forsake such an addiction.’
‘To be honest, now that I am in my seventies, I wouldn’t mind taking up the habit again. Now, to continue with your story, did you find it difficult coming here to attend to all these foreigners? After all, they had been the occupying power. The enemy. The very people who had caused your starvation.’
‘I’m not sure if that was true. I prefer to blame the lack of food on the poor way our own government dealt with the gangsters
running
the black markets. But to answer your question, I was quite happy to serve the Americans. I admired them very much. I still do. They dragged us out of a culture of imperialism and helped to modernise our country. I have always been very grateful to them for that.’
‘I hope you don’t mind me asking this. But did you ever read
The Waterwheel
?’
‘Of course. Although it was many years ago. We retain several copies in our library here. In both English and Japanese.’
‘And what did you think of it?’
‘That is not for me to say, Sir Edward. I am just a humble reader. Your many awards and prizes speak far better on your behalf than I can.’
‘But I am interested to know what you think.’
‘I liked the love story with the
panpan
girl very much. I recall it was very moving.’
‘But did you feel the novel was balanced? Balanced in the way it portrayed both the Americans and Japanese during and after the war?’
‘Ah, Sir Edward, you always were interested in such ideas.
Ishikawa
-san, the manager when you were first here, do you
remember
him? He sadly passed away many years ago. He often talked of his conversations with you. Late into the night, a shared bottle of one of our fine malt whiskies from the bar. I was often envious of such occasions. And here I am now, faced with the same
opportunity
, yet I am at a loss for words.’
‘Yes, I do remember Ishikawa-san. He wore such large spectacles.’
Takahashi nodded vigorously and slapped his thigh. ‘Yes, yes. Those spectacles. They were extremely large. And thick. They kept falling off his nose. We used to call him
Binzoko
. Bottle bottoms. Affectionately, of course. And never to his face.’
‘So you knew Ishikawa-san. How long have you been here then?’
‘Forty-eight years, Sir Edward. I retire next spring.’
‘My goodness. That means you were here during my first visit.’
Takahashi tilted his head in acknowledgement. ‘Yes, I
remember
your stay very well. All the staff were very impressed that a person could take up residency here for such a long time in order to write a book. We all thought you were a famous millionaire.’
‘No such thing. I had just come into a small inheritance after the death of my…’ And then it struck Edward. A flash of a memory. A magician’s fiery fingers. ‘Now I know who you are. You’re the young lad who put out the fire. During the performance of the Chinese illusionist. That’s the burn mark on your hand.’
‘Yes, that is very true. It occurred after the visit of the
Honourable
Jawaharlal Nehru. Do you remember that? I was very fortunate an Indian doctor was in the audience to treat me so quickly.
Otherwise
, the scar could have been much worse.’
‘You were something of a hero that evening.’
‘Just performing my duty, Sir Edward.’
‘And so you must remember Jerome Fisk from that time?’
‘Of course, I remember him. Fisk-sensei went on to become a professor at one of our famous universities. Only two days ago we chatted when he called about the Shinkansen tickets.’ Takahashi brought his cigarette slowly to his lips for a deep inhalation, then turned to look out of the window as the smoke curled out of his nostrils. The tea lounge overlooked the pond with its backdrop of trimmed shrubbery and then across to the dining room. Edward couldn’t tell if Takahashi was merely enjoying the view or spying on his staff as they prepared the tables for the Old Boys luncheon.
‘This has been an extremely pleasant conversation,’ Takahashi said eventually, turning his attention back to the room, squashing out his cigarette in the ashtray. ‘But there is one question you have not asked.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Forgive me, Sir Edward. But one thing I did learn from the Americans was to speak directly when the situation demanded.’
‘Well, please do so.’
‘You asked me if I knew Ishikawa-san and Fisk-sensei from your first visit here. But you haven’t asked about one of my co-workers. Sumiko-chan. Why don’t you ask about her?’
‘I’m going back to Tokyo,’ Jerome told Edward over a glass of Scotch and a game of draughts in the Magic Room. ‘My research paper is complete. Time to return to the real world. Do you remember that place?’
‘You think academia is the real world?’
‘For some. And you?’
‘I sent my manuscript to an agent about a month ago. I am
presently
residing in limbo land.’
‘Not a bad place to be. And your manuscript has a title?’
Edward told him.
‘Aha,’ Jerome said, snatching two pieces off the board. ‘The waterwheel in the garden.’
‘The very same. That is the symbol I have chosen. The metaphor.’
‘For your anti-American diatribe?’
‘It’s a love story set during the Occupation. It would be hard to avoid the Americans in that situation.’
‘In a negative way?’
‘In a balanced way.’
‘Well, I hope so, pal. Another game?’ Jerome had cornered his sole surviving piece with his crown.
‘No, thanks.’
‘Coward.’
‘Merely aware of my own limitations.’
Jerome swept the draughts into their box. ‘Listen, Eddie. I’ve planned a little farewell trip to the coast tomorrow. To Kamakura. Home of the Daibutsu, the Giant Buddha. And a bunch of other temples and shrines. Want to come along for the ride? I’ve rented an automobile with a driver.’
‘Kamakura is also home to Yasunari Kawabata.’
‘A pal of yours?’
‘No, not at all. He is a well-known Japanese writer.’
‘Do you want to meet him?’
‘Not me. But I know someone who would like to.’
‘Yeah. Who?’
‘One of the chambermaids.’
‘You sly bastard.’ Jerome scratched his head as if he were
genuinely
puzzled. ‘You think you got a guy figured out for being straight-laced. And all the time he’s been warming his bed with the female staff. Are you going to tell me who she is? Or is this one of these novels-without-a-title kind of game?’
Edward sipped on his whisky, excited by the prospect of finally revealing her name. Objectifying his relationship so that it would exist outside his head. Outside his room. ‘Sumiko,’ he said.
‘I knew it. Can’t blame you. She’s a looker.’
‘I am only involving you because you are leaving. Not a word to anyone, you understand?’
‘Yankee’s honour.’
‘It so happens she has the day off tomorrow. You will need to pick her up in the village if she agrees to come.’
‘Our automobile leaves at nine.’
Edward felt it was going to be a great day as soon as Sumiko entered the car, settled herself between him and Jerome in the rear seat. The chemistry immediate, that peculiar alchemy of human personalities
destined to relieve tensions and to create a heady mix. Rough edges, old wounds and unfulfilled needs all disappeared. The dynamic of this trio would be full of humour and easy banter, he was sure of it. Even the sun was shining for them on this early spring morning, so fresh and full of potential.
‘“
Kamakura lies host to more than eighty Buddhist temples and Shinto shrines,
”’ Jerome read from his guidebook. ‘“
It was chosen as the
capital
of Japan in the 12th century by the Minamoto shogunate because of its natural defences. The sea on one side, hills on the other three so that even to this day any entrance unless by boat means a train or road journey through tunnels. Fifty miles south of the modern day capital, it is a place where Tokyoites come to pray and play.
” Get that. Pray and play. I like that.’
Fifty miles south of Tokyo. By the sea. Where Tokyoites come to play. Those were the facts that caught Edward’s attention.
Kamakura
sounded like the Brighton of Japan. Brighton. That was the last time he had been to the seaside. The last time he had seen Macy. He had not thought of her for a long time. Yet as soon as he ventured out of his little cave into the real world, there she was. Ahead of him on the pebbled beach, her sunburnt shoulders,
summer
dress drawn tight over her buttocks, shell to her ear. Dancing. He moved his hand close to Sumiko’s, scraped gently at the skin of her wrist with his little finger.
‘I want some photos of the Giant Buddha,’ Jerome said,
declaring
his intentions early, like a young child on a family outing. He had brought his Brownie, held it tight on his lap. ‘I think I could get some really good shots if the light keeps like this. Yeah, this is excellent light. More than I could have hoped for at this time of year. Class A light. What about you, Eddie?’
‘I’d like to see the sea.’
‘That can be easily arranged. And Sumiko-chan?’
‘I want to see the house of Kawabata-sensei. If we can find it.’
‘Sure we’ll find it,’ said Jerome. ‘That will be our mission for the day. To give Sumiko-chan whatever she wants.’
‘The head looks too big for its body,’ Edward muttered as he sat there observing the Giant Buddha, Sumiko beside him, Jerome in
a crouch snapping away at the statue with his camera. The Giant Buddha stood forty feet high according to the guidebook, but appeared much taller in reality. Big and squat. That was what was unusual about the structure. Its squatness. Edward had seen his fair share of towers and columns and steeples and statues on plinths. All reaching for the sky. For immortality. But this Buddha was very much of the earth. Solid. Mortal. Its bronze coating oxidised
blue-green
from six hundred years of wind, rain, beating sun, storms and quakes, as well as the curious touch and disrespectful buttocks of strangers. Cast in lotus position, hands clasped, eyes closed, that too-large head bowed in meditation.
‘That is because of where we sit,’ Sumiko said. ‘If we stand in a special spot just in front of Daibutsu, it is a perfect shape.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I came here before on a high school trip.’
‘I can imagine you as a schoolgirl. Uniform and pigtails. Little white socks.’
‘Blue. Dark blue socks.’ She smiled, walked him over to the location to show him what she meant. She was right. The Giant Buddha now sat facing him in proper proportion. Such a serene icon compared to the agonising Christ of his own religion.
‘Smile for the camera.’ Jerome in front of them, box Brownie tucked into the pit of his stomach, head bowed to the view finder, shouting instructions, waving them closer. Sumiko giggling but Edward feeling her awkward and tense in his grasp at this public display of affection. A Japanese couple stopping to stare at the
gaijin
and his mistress. At the loud American. ‘Say cheese.’
‘Cheeeeese.’ Click. Frozen in time.
‘Can I have a copy?’ Edward shouted over to Jerome.
‘For Sumiko?’ Jerome shouted back.
‘What do you think? For Ishikawa-san?’
This made Sumiko laugh. Edward couldn’t remember having done that before. Then Jerome doing the same with his antics and his pathetic Japanese jokes. The two men getting loud and worked up into some kind of competitive frenzy, Sumiko laughing at the stupidity of it all.
She took them to a soba shop she remembered from her high school trip. Old beams, counter bar, enormous pots of scalding water steaming the windows wet. A gnarled old man with black teeth serving warm sake out of a kettle. Edward made sure he had a seat beside Sumiko while Jerome talked to his driver, a cheerful little Buddha of a man, sending him off to the nearest police box to find out where Kawabata lived.
‘What do you want to do when we get there?’ Edward asked her.
‘Jerome-san can take photograph for me.’
‘You should knock on the door. Tell him how much you like his book.’
She looked shocked. ‘You would do that?’
‘We Americans would,’ Jerome said, pulling up a stool. ‘Ask the man for his autograph. A cup of Joe. No problem.’ Making Sumiko laugh again.
The driver came back with the address and directions. Jerome clapping him on the back, buying him a bowl of noodles, telling him to sit and relax. They would abandon the car for the next few hours, walk along the seafront to the house.
The beach was empty, apart from a few bored fishermen drying seaweed on racks, the dark green fronds blowing like bunting in the breeze. No seagulls, just a couple of crows foraging for food among the stranded fishing boats. The island of Oshima just visible in a haze on the horizon. Sumiko took off her shoes, hitched up the hem of her kimono, to walk barefoot in the dark sand. Edward strolled beside her, Jerome up ahead, trousers rolled up, kicking up a splash in a stream.
‘It will rain soon,’ she said.
‘Looks likely.’
‘Your friend is a funny man.’
‘He’s leaving tomorrow for Tokyo.’
‘
Kawai so
,’ she said. ‘It’s a pity.’
And here was Jerome again, full of exaggerated bows, making a big show of leading Sumiko by the hand, taking her to the edge of
the stream, helping her over on the conveniently placed rocks like some American Walter Raleigh. But halfway across, one of the stones rocked on its side, and she slipped. Jerome reached out, tried to grab her, but she fell, landing half in and half out of the shallow water.
‘
Bakka ne
?’ she said, holding her ankle. ‘I am so stupid.’ Her body lay sideways and twisted, the bottom of her kimono soaked, sand in her hair. Edward tried to haul her up, Jerome too, but she winced with pain.
‘
Itai
,’ she whimpered. ‘It is sore. I cannot stand.’
Edward crouched down, lifted her up like a bride, so light in his arms. She leaned her head into his neck and he felt the warm breath there, the wetness of her lashes on his cheek. It was too far to carry her back to the soba shop, so he eased her down on one foot. With one arm around his neck, the other around Jerome’s, she managed to hop back along the beach to the car. Jerome had to wake up his driver, told him to take them to a local hospital, which he did, swinging the car through the narrow streets like a field ambulance on a mercy mission. A nurse bound up the swollen ankle, lent Sumiko a pair of crutches.
The buoyant mood that had infected the start of the day was gone. Their trio was split, deflated. Jerome had moved up front to sit by the driver, Sumiko sat huddled in a corner in the back, her injured leg stretched across the floor, across Edward’s feet. He stared out at the choppy waves of a murky sea as the car hugged the coastline before peeling off for the hills.
‘
Bakka ne
?’ she said. ‘I ruin your day.’
‘These things happen,’ Edward said. ‘It’s no one’s fault.’
‘Blame me,’ Jerome said, turning round. ‘I should’ve paid more attention. Everything was going just fine until I had to do my big goofy routine.’
‘You didn’t hear me, Jerome. No one’s fault. Leave it at that.’
‘Yeah, that may be. But she didn’t get to see the house. I feel bad about that. You really wanted to see that house, Sumiko-chan, didn’t you?’
‘We’ll go to Kawabata-sensei’s house next time in Kamakura, Eddie? Next time?’
‘Yes. Next time.’
It started to rain. Mount Fuji should have been visible
somewhere
ahead, but its presence was obscured by low clouds. There seemed to be no bright colour anywhere. Only the drab browns and greys of seaside homes out of season, shutters battened down against the weather. No one spoke. All of them hunkered down into their private worlds, the rain lending a kind of legitimacy to the solitude. For that was what people did, didn’t they? Listen to rain. Edward listened to it himself, pelting the bodywork,
drumming
a natural beat to his thoughts.
On Jerome’s instruction, the car stopped to let Sumiko off at the entrance to the staff annexe rather than in the village. The driver got out, pulled open the passenger door, held out an umbrella for her.
‘Thank you for such a happy day,’ she said, bowing in her crutches to each of them. As Edward watched her hobble inside, an intense sadness took hold of him. He wanted to rush after her, grab her, shake her, tell her something. Tell her what? That he loved her? Too late he noticed she had forgotten one of her shoes in the car.
Back at the main hotel building, he said a tepid farewell to Jerome. He genuinely liked the man although their political
differences
had prevented any kind of real friendship. Disappointment. That was what he felt now. About Jerome. About Sumiko. About the whole day.
‘Mr Strathairn. Mr Strathairn.’
Ishikawa. Edward feared the hotel manager had found him out for kidnapping and wounding a member of his staff. The
incriminating
shoe stuffed in his pocket.
‘Ah, Mr Strathairn. I have been looking all over for you. It is so unusual not to find you in the hotel.’
‘I have been to Kamakura. With Mr Fisk. Is there a problem?’
‘Not a problem, I hope. Only a telegram.’ The manager handed over the envelope. Edward tore it open and read.
“I love MS. Publishers interested. Come back immediately. A.”
It took Edward a few moments to realise MS stood for
manuscript
and not the initials of one of Aldous’ lovers.
